“Hey, wait a second there. You’re talking about the picture I took? You’re saying Trish has something to do with this?”
Nancy’s protest went unanswered while Elizabeth went on, each of the pieces of the puzzle seemingly slotting neatly into place with every point. “So now she can’t trust the prison officers, she can’t trust me, she has nowhere to go. Who can she tell? Jennifer Glassy? Hardly. Glassy was the one running the investigation that had her own sister convicted of drug smuggling and tossed into the Women’s Reformatory. And maybe it wasn’t Lois at all. Maybe it was someone trying to shut her up as well.” She lifted her eyebrows at the other two women and waited for the idea to percolate.
“So what choice does Stacy have? Stay in prison? Hope something doesn’t slip out that puts her son’s life in jeopardy? No, she comes up with a plan. She has to save her son. So she takes the first opportunity she gets, and she runs.”
She looked from Penny to Nancy, waiting for objections.
Nancy came up with the first one. She’d been frowning deeply while she listened, eyes narrowed on a point just in front of her while she followed along in her mind.
Eventually, she bunched her mouth and tipped her head to the negative. “Nope, sorry. I just don’t buy it. There’s no way you’d get anything into that place. You don’t know what it’s like. You give ’em half a chance, you got no idea what people try to smuggle in. And if you’re talking suppliers, everything, and I mean everything that goes into that prison is logged and checked then rechecked. Trish told me that Glassy’s totally anal about security—even more so since Lois Hankerman was arrested.”
“Exactly. So what’s the conclusion Stacy is going to come to? That it has to be someone on the inside. Now all she can do is find her son and hope the two of them can disappear forever. Come on, let’s get back. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Penny hit the ignition, put the car in gear, and eased out of the lane into the main street, heading north. “Where are we going next?”
“You’re on research duty. I want the names of anyone even remotely associated with Millcreek and I want you to dig out any connections you find with Trish Tomes—regardless of how loose.”
Nancy sat forward again, clearly offended. “Well, hold on a second. I don’t like this idea that you think Trish has been dealing in drugs. That’s nuts. She just wouldn’t do that.”
“You said yourself Trish has been acting strange lately—angry one minute, crying the next. What if her job is being threatened? Or worse, what if she’s being blackmailed? What if whoever’s threatening Stacy is also threatening to kill you if Trish doesn’t do what she’s told? That’s a more likely explanation for why her car’s out here in the middle of nowhere. And why she’s been coming here these past few nights. Somebody’s got her under their thumb and they’re applying the pressure.”
Penny slowed the car, indicated, then swung back to the main highway again, checking the rearview mirror before hitting the accelerator and swerving across two lanes, cutting off a driver who leaned long and hard on his horn in response. She ignored him, saying, “So you think it’s Jennifer Glassy who’s bringing in the drugs? Why would she? Money? You think she’ll risk her job, and throw her sister into the can, just to make a few bucks on the side? You gotta admit, it’s a stretch.”
Elizabeth didn’t even blink when they swerved into the fast lane and Penny slammed her foot to the floor, rocketing them over the speed limit. As far as she was concerned, the faster they got back, the better. Everything in her mind reinforced her theory and if Nancy was right and the police were expecting an imminent arrest, they didn’t have a minute to lose.
After mulling over the details a minute more, she turned in her seat, addressing both Penny and Nancy. “Okay, so this is what I’m thinking: what if Lois found out what was going on first? What if she discovered heroin being smuggled into the prison and who was responsible, and went to her sister to tell her what she knew? Maybe it’s one of the other contractors. Or a supplier. Maybe it’s someone Glassy can’t afford to fall out of favor with. Lois threatens to go to the authorities. And when Glassy can’t convince her to keep her mouth shut, she does the only thing she can—has her framed, then arrested and thrown into solitary confinement.”
“That’s a lot of what-ifs and maybes,” said Penny. “Especially just to keep a few extra bucks rolling into the place.”
“Too many ifs and maybes for my liking,” Nancy added sourly. “You’re saying that Warden Glassy would turn a blind eye to drugs coming into her own prison, then frame her sister and have her arrested? I don’t see it.”
Elizabeth picked up her phone and hit the redial. “Well, there’s only one way to find out what’s really going on in that place.” After several rings, the call was picked up, and she said, “I’d like to speak with Jennifer Glassy, please.”
“Just a moment,” the woman at the other end said, but in less than a minute she was back. “I’m sorry, Warden Glassy isn’t available at the moment. Can someone else help you?”
Elizabeth checked her watch—after five already.
“No, I need to talk to the warden. Has she left for the day?”
“She’s been called away to an incident. She’s down in the infirmary. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. Tell her that Elizabeth McClaine called and that I’ll be there in forty-five minutes for a meeting with her. And tell her it would be advisable to make sure she’s available, because this is a matter of absolute urgency.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DAY TWO: 6:08 PM—STACY
Stacy had followed the Mercedes back into the central city, ducking down back streets to avoid the cops, then emerging further along, convinced she’d lost the car, only to pick it up in the distance.
But sooner or later, someone was bound to spot her license plates and call it in. After an intense internal debate that came down on the side of abandoning the pursuit, she was about to cut down the next street to her right and take off, when the left indicator light on the Mercedes flickered and the car slowed.
Three cars back, Stacy also slowed. When a gap in the traffic opened up, the Mercedes swung across into the parking garage of a tall corporate-looking building that was all glass and steel cut in angles, and disappeared down the ramp. Stacy drove on a ways, and found a parking place just around the corner. No time to feed the meter. She locked the car and walked quickly back. Keeping her head down, she hurried down the main street and entered a brightly lit lobby, marbled floor, vaulted ceilings, light shafting in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The place looked like a museum.
In the center of the lobby, a concierge sitting behind a broad desk looked up as she approached.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Can you tell me where the stairs are? My sister left her phone with me. She’s parked in the basement and I have to get it back to her.”
“The elevators are just back here,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder. “Take one of the first four. They’ll take you straight to the parking garage.”
“Be faster to take the stairs,” she told him. “And better exercise.”
He gave her a quizzical look, then leaned forward and pointed past her, this time across to her left. “Just over there.”
The second she was through the door, she hit the stairs, flying down them until she came to the lower landing with a sign next to the door that read: LI PARKING GARAGE.
Out in the gloom, rows of concrete pillars stood with maybe twenty, thirty parked cars scattered between. Around the corner, same story. Saturday, the place was almost deserted. On a weekday the place would be packed. At the sound of an engine echoing dully across the space, she ducked down behind an SUV in the front row. A dark gray Toyota sedan went by. She waited until it rounded the first bend then straightened.
No sign of the Mercedes. She threaded her way across a couple of near-empty rows in case the car was sitting behind one of the pillars.
No sign of it.
&nbs
p; Across in the next row, a guy got out of the gray Toyota that had just passed her and headed for the elevator. After pressing the call button, he turned to watch her.
Keeping her head down, she swerved away and walked to a nearby car. “Yup, that’d make my day—lose the target, then some random guy turns me in,” she muttered under her breath while she pretended to unlock it.
Conscious that the owner would have unlocked the car by now, she waited until he glanced up to check the elevator light panel, then ducked down until she heard the bell ding and the doors slide open. When she bobbed up, the doors were open and she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Crane-Thorpe in the back of the elevator, and the guy sliding a card down a slot, and pressing a button just before the doors met. A couple of seconds later, the letter G lit up on the panel above. She trotted across and watched the numbers climb, noting only now that there was another parking level below the one she was on. The elevator stopped on the first floor, then moved on.
How many people were in the elevator? It didn’t look full, but she was sure the woman wasn’t on her own. The elevator door next to her opened and three people stepped out. She didn’t even look, just kept her eyes glued to the light. The numbers climbed without stopping: 26, 27, 28, then slowed. Number 29 remained illuminated. The car stopped again on 32, then began descending again. The woman had obviously gotten off either on 29 or 32. She hit the call button and when the elevator next to her opened, she got in. Right next to the number panel was a sign stating that key card access was required for the upper floors. Which meant that the guy with the swipe card probably got off at 32.
She hit the button marked G and burst into the lobby the second the doors parted. The concierge was pointing a couple back to the elevators. She walked double-time past him and over to the lobby where, as she’d expected, a metal background iodized into a gold color, black tiles lettered in white and set into slots to spell out the names. No sign of Millcreek on 29. Or on 32. Or on any others.
A dead end.
The concierge lifted his eyes as she approached.
“Yeah, me again. Can you tell me if there’s a company in this building named Millcreek Fashions?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Are you sure? Like, maybe it’s a part of another company or something.”
He said nothing, didn’t even blink.
“I see. Okay, thanks.”
So the company wasn’t here. She’d hit a brick wall. It was a long shot, but disappointing all the same. But why would the woman deny her involvement with Millcreek? She didn’t even flinch when Stacy mentioned the name, so it wasn’t like the company name had changed or she’d resigned from the board. She’d have at least shown recognition.
No matter. She had one more cat in the bag, one other name to follow up. If only she’d gotten the address from Bear while she had the chance. Too late now. Across the lobby, the concierge scanned the area from glass windows to elevators, from the potted plants in the corner across to where Stacy was, and stopped on her with his eyebrows up.
“Just one more thing,” she said as she headed towards him.
He recognized the name right away. When he gave her the pitying look someone might save for the terminally stupid, she wanted to say, “Hey, not all of us sit around reading the financial columns in the can,” but as Curta always said, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, so she kept her remarks to herself.
The concierge leaned his elbows on the desk, hands laced under his chin, speaking to her in a slow, deliberate tone. “I’m afraid even if I knew Miss Wentworth’s home address, I’m sure you’re aware I couldn’t give it out.”
“So you know who she is?”
His eyebrows went up again, as if to say, “Are you kidding?”
“Okay, so can you tell me where I can find a phone book?”
He shifted, as if his patience was coming to an end. “If you’re looking for Miss Wentworth, may I suggest you visit her in her office on the 29th floor.”
Stacy blinked at him, then looked across at the elevator bank. “She’s up there?”
“Could be. She usually works Saturdays until six or so. Although,” he said and made a show of checking his watch, “you may have just missed her.”
“Okay, thanks.” She hustled across to hit the elevator button and waited with her arms folded and her head down.
Behind her, one of the elevators dinged and the doors slid open. In back of the car she got a glimpse of Maryanne Crane-Thorpe talking to a man next to her. Terrified the woman would recognize her, Stacy kept her head down and fell into step with four executive-looking women who got out of the car she was waiting for, and walked with them until the elevator door closed again.
Then she raced for the stairwell.
“Excuse me,” the concierge called after her. “Would you mind—”
But she was already through the door, thundering down the stairs two at a time, swinging around the railing at the midway turn, sneakers squeaking on the pivots until she got to the lower parking garage. She cracked the door and peeked out just in time to see Mrs. Crane-Thorpe, scarf billowing out behind her as she walked back to her car, arm in arm with a younger man. Following a short distance behind, but obviously with them, was the woman Stacy recognized from the same Google search as Christine Wentworth. The photo she’d seen on the internet must have been a recent one because she looked exactly the same. Stacy slid in behind one of the concrete pillars, straightened, and peeked out. The car reversed up, did a 180-degree turn, and sped in her direction. She ducked around the back of the pillar until it swished by, then watched as it cornered at the far end of the row and disappeared up the exit ramp.
If her gut was right, and if luck was still on her side, she knew where she had to go next.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DAY TWO: 6:49 PM—ELIZABETH
After dropping Nancy back home with instructions to keep an eye on the tracking system for any further movements of Trish’s car, Elizabeth told her emphatically that whatever happened, she was not to follow. She was to call immediately and they’d decide what to do from there. She also advised her to call Trish’s phone at regular intervals, and if she picked up, ditto: call without delay.
Nancy told them if Trish were in any danger, she’d know it in a heartbeat, that Trish would have told Nancy if she was in trouble, and they’d have dealt with it together because that’s the kind of relationship they had.
Elizabeth didn’t bother reminding her that over the past few months, the poor woman had displayed God only knew how many signs of distress, sure indications that something was terribly wrong, but in each case, every cry for help had gone unnoticed. Then again, she was hardly one to talk. Look at what had happened in her own relationship. She and Richard had fallen so far apart in what everyone thought was the perfect marriage, and yet when the final curtain fell it was almost as if she’d been living with a total stranger. It’s what happens, sometimes, she thought. You don’t always know the person you love as well as you think.
Quite apart from that, what would be the point in laying guilt on Nancy and making her feel even worse than she already did?
For now, Elizabeth’s only hope in getting to the bottom of this whole fiasco, she thought, was to track down the weak spot in the prison supply line that had allowed Millcreek Fashions to smuggle drugs onto the premises, leaving a woman dead and an innocent woman to take the blame, and Stacy May Charms with no hope of seeing her son grow.
Having picked up her own car, she’d headed straight out for Carringway—a trip she knew so well now, she could have made it blindfolded.
Dusk had drawn a black curtain over the landscape, creating large blocks of oily black shadow across the front of the prison as she drove down Carringway Drive and in through the front entrance. In contrast to the bleak façade, the interior lighting at each of the barred windows lent the place a deceptively warm atmosphere within.
Elizabeth pulled the car to a halt at the gate w
here the barrier arm lifted and the guard on duty waved her straight through. She turned right at the end of the approach and into the public parking lot where she pulled into the first available spot.
After taking a moment to rehearse the points she needed to take up with the warden, she got out and locked her car, tucking her purse under her arm as she walked to the entrance. At the visitors’ reception area, she was met by a waiting prison officer.
“Mrs. McClaine?” the woman asked sharply.
“Yes. I have an appointment with Warden Glassy.”
“She’s expecting you.” She gestured for Elizabeth to follow, then walked off.
Elizabeth trailed her down a hallway past two interview rooms and halted at the gated entrance where the duty officer carried out all the usual formalities of identification and signing in. Feeling the eyes of the remaining administration personnel following her as she passed, she kept her head high and continued on down the familiar route until they reached Warden Glassy’s office. At the door, the officer gave two short raps on the upper wood panel and waited.
“Come in.” Glassy’s voice, from within her inner sanctum.
The officer pushed the door open and stood back holding it, waiting for Elizabeth to enter.
“Thank you,” she said, moving past her.
The prison officer withdrew with a nod of her head, then closed the door, leaving her alone with the warden.
Warden Glassy was sitting at her desk, her legs crossed, both arms along the armrests of her deep-seated black leather swivel chair. She dipped her head briefly in greeting. “Come in, Elizabeth. Take a seat,” she said, indicating one of the chairs facing her. She looked exhausted.
Elizabeth took the closest chair and sat down. “Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice.”
An icy smile curled the corners of the warden’s mouth. “You say that as if I had the choice. What’s on your mind, Elizabeth?”
The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set Page 50